The Last Two
by justadram
Summary: They stand on the ramparts together, as if they are the last two in the world. Set post-series. Jon/Sansa


**Title**: The Last Two  
><strong>Author<strong>: just_a_dram  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: ASOIAF  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Jon/Sansa  
><strong>Rating<strong>: T  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 832  
><strong>Summary<strong>: They stand on the ramparts together, as if they are the last two in the world. Set post series.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: A work of fanfiction for which the author receives no profit.  
><strong>Notes<strong>: Originally written from the got_exchange comment fic meme.

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><p>The Last Two<p>

They are the first two awake. In the castle certainly, although as they stand on the ramparts of Maegor's Holdfast, staring out over the ruins of the city, and he adjusts the fur of his cloak—the only thing that covers her nakedness—around her shoulders, Sansa feels as if they are the first two awake in the whole of Westeros. Maybe the entire world.

Her husband is quiet at her side. They carry the guilt of surviving when those they loved did not, they have simply seen too much to speak without purpose. They share blood and a history that makes words unnecessary. She need only look into his solemn grey eyes to see what he feels or close her own and feel it too.

It is a good thing she can hear him in her head, for Jon is very often silent. Except when he groans into her neck and fists her thick, auburn hair, as their hips meet and the castle sleeps.

As a Targaryen king, Jon could have married his sister once he sat the Iron Throne. He is the Prince that was Promised, the Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire, who wielded Lightbringer to scatter the darkness that stalked the land. No one would have raised a word against his wishes. They all are only too glad to have him rule.

Sansa thinks she would have said 'yes' even if he had come to her as her brother, the bastard of her lord father. Not because he promised to protect her. She can protect herself now with poison, pretty smiles, and soft promises if need be. And not because he confessed on bended knee that he needed, required her by his side. He does not need the bonds of marriage to secure her. She knows without his saying it that he fears losing her would mean losing his last shred of humanity, that he might end as mad as Mad King Aerys, the second of his name. So, she saves him as he saved her.

No, she would have said 'yes', because she remembers the feeling that washed over her the first time she saw him. Bloody from battle, his dark hair tangled, and striding across the field towards her as she threw her hood back and tamped down the unladylike urge to dash forward. To meet him half way and throw herself into his arms. _Her brother_. He looked lean and strong. He looked like a Stark; the first she had seen in years, since even her own mirror failed to reflect back the former Lord Stark's somber, long face. She wanted to wake to that handsome face every morning. Something in her belly had known it even then.

But he did not come to her as her brother. He has new parentage now. Direwolves and dragons grace his personal sigil. He is still a bastard—just not Eddard Stark's—although no one thinks to remind the king of that.

She finds his hand with her own, lacing her fingers through his, knitting them together. Though he wears no gloves, his hand is warm. Unnaturally so, given the chill of the air that makes their breath blow white, but she is accustomed to his fevered skin against hers.

"You're cold," he says, giving her hand a squeeze.

"As I should be," she says with a soft smile, as his too large cloak slips once more, baring a pale shoulder to his gaze.

He bends, pressing a hot kiss to her flesh that causes her to shiver the way the wind does not. "It's too early to stir." They did so on her whim, and while he is serious and not given to caprice, having learned restraint and sacrifice and self denial at the Wall, he concedes to her wishes now more than ever. "We should go back inside," he murmurs, his lips brushing her exposed clavicle.

If passion prompted his words, she would surrender to his counsel, but it is concern that casts a shadow over his face as he straightens up, and there is no need for that. It is up to her to assuage his worry. With her free hand she strokes his cheek, stubbled with a day and night's worth of growth. "I like the cold. We're both children of the north," she reminds him, tilting her head up to receive his kiss.

"But in your condition," he begins, but she cuts him off the way no one else dares do.

"The cold can't do us any harm. Besides, I intend to make the most of it while it lasts: it won't be winter much longer." The days already grow warmer, the nights shorter, as spring slowly creeps forward to consume more and more of the blessed time they spend alone together in the shade of night.

He frowns, drawing her into his chest and wrapping his arms around her thickening waist.

They are the last two standing, but not for long.

-Fin-


End file.
